


Found

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Plot What Plot, Tom is a Sweetheart, a lot of nonsense really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 14:37:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Just a little drabble written for a Tumblr pal - Tom's wrapped up filming of Crimson Peak, but does he have anything to share with you before he leaves?





	Found

You finished up your sketch and tucked the notebook away in the pocket of your dress, then freshened up your lip balm. Everyone had come out to the set today for the end of filming party - not a wrap party per se, but a general “we’re done now, let’s kick loose” sort of deal.

You were beyond excited. As the lead costume designer, you got to work with a lot of the clothes and set of the film but you hadn’t had a proper chance to meet the actors wearing the outfits you had painstakingly designed. Crimson Peak had been over a year in the planning, writing and designing and you had spent many a night toiling over the costumes, wondering who was going to fill the shoes of the enigmatic Thomas Sharpe.

And you’d meet him tonight. You’d been allowed to go to fittings but there wasn’t usually much chance to talk. When you’d crossed paths, always too briefly, he seemed charming, funny, humble. It didn’t hurt that he looked like sin, all that curling black hair winding a path of his collar, his eyes bright in a face of planes and angles, his voice James Bond dipped in chocolate.

You anticipated tonight for another reason - the set would be dismantled and maybe you’d finally find your other little notebook full of sketches. You’d dropped it weeks ago during one fitting or another and you hoped the runners would find it for you.

Your assistant popped her head into your temporary office on set. “Everyone’s just about ready now.”

“Cool.” You thanked her and she led you into the big marquee that had been set up with a full buffet and plenty of chill space for the cast and crew to mingle and let their hair down. You saw a tin bath full of ice and beers and thought,  _ hell yeah. _

Pausing by the beer boat, you reached for a cold Corona when someone said your name. You’d recognise that voice anywhere. You’d heard it enough in your dreams.

_ Tom. _

He hadn’t bothered changing out of costume, and the high collar of his starched white shirt kissed his jaw. The open neck fed into a midnight black waistcoat - velvet. You knew because you’d selected the fabric yourself. It hugged his torso, leading to slim fitting black trousers that encased legs for days.

One errant curl of his hair, ever untameable, flopped over his forehead as he looked at you, the hint of a smile tugging at one side of his poet’s mouth. 

“Hey, ah, Mr H.” You tried for casual, and thought you kinda succeeded.

“Tom. Please. I believe I have something that belongs to you.” He reached into the pocket of his dress trousers, and in his hand was your little notebook; the one you’d lost weeks ago. He offered it. “I.. took the liberty of thumbing through it. These are incredible, you must know.”

“I, er… thanks.” You had no idea what to say. When he looked at you like that with eyes the colour of the pacific at sunset, coherent thought was impossible. A blush crept up your neck as you released that almost all the drawings in that little notebook were of one person. And he stood before you.

“I’m flattered that I apparently made such a good subject,” he said shyly, dipping his head a little, and you realised that he  _ truly _ had no idea how many pulses he’d set racing the world over. And how many more hearts would light up when they saw the movie you’d been working on. “You know…. I’d have sat for you. If you’d asked.”

Your stomach clutched. The party around you fell away as you held his gaze.  _ Say something, dumbass. _ “I… You were busy.”

“I’m not busy now.”

And that was how you ended up walking back to his trailer on set, fingers laced together, your free hands holding chilled beers. You talked late into the night, about your art. About his childhood. About your crappy exes and his, laughing and commiserating. And when he cupped your face and kissed you deeply, as if he were drinking you like a fine wine, you closed your eyes and lived that beautiful dream.

****

Two years later, you both recounted the story for some Hollywood magazine or another as Tom announced his engagement to you. He’d proposed on a wild cliff on the edge of the West Coast of Ireland, laughter and the promise of a lifelong love in his eyes and an antique silver ring with a single set garnet in his hand. He’d found it in a tiny antique shop where you’d been trolling for vintage frames to mount your work.

He kept his house in London and you worked out of the US a lot. But you were happy together. The thought of a life, children, and a future with him made you giddy.

And he still kept the Thomas Sharpe costume for the occasional  _ very _ enjoyable night in.

But you didn’t tell the press about any of that.


End file.
